“You! You…” Words failed Lorcan and he ground his teeth in anger. The King just kept staring at him, his face unreadable.
“Dad,” whispered Wynter, but she and Razi had been washed aside, left stranded by this far darker, older storm. Razi reached for her, and she took his hand.
“You promised me!” Lorcan growled, spitting fire. Jonathon tilted his head away as if to avoid some of the sparks. Then Lorcan’s sudden burst of energy deserted him, and he sank abruptly to his side, his lips white. “You promised!”
Jonathon stepped towards the bed and stared down at his friend. Lorcan was the very image now of an angry corpse. His eyes glittering with rage, he glared up at the King. Then Wynter saw realisation dawning slowly in his white face.
“Jesu, Jonathon! You always intended to, didn’t you? That’s why you sent me away! It wasn’t to negotiate with the Northlanders! It wasn’t to play hostage of faith to that cur Shirken! It was so I wouldn’t be in your way… It was… aaggh!” He lifted his fists to his face and keened inarticulately with fury. “And you dragged Alberon into it! Your lovely shining boy! And Oliver! Oliver! Oh. You bastard! Oh, Jonathon, you bastard!”
“You built it,” hissed Jonathon accusingly. His fists were balled up, his shoulders hunched and he loomed over the recumbent man like a cliff about to fall. “You built it, you poxy hypocrite. Don’t…”
“I was seventeen!” howled Lorcan. “And you promised! After the first time, you took an oath…!”
“Things got desperate here, Lorcan, you’ve no idea.”
Lorcan snarled up at the King, “Nothing could be that desperate!” Lorcan’s cheeks were wet with tears. Wynter had never seen her father cry like this before. She squeezed Razi’s hand so hard that she felt his bones move under the skin. She felt like they were witnessing some form of combat. Some quick, murderous battle in which the King and Lorcan tore strips from each other’s armour, exposing an unexpected depth of darkness beneath.
Suddenly Lorcan shifted his gaze to where she and Razi were standing pressed side by side at the foot of his bed, their eyes enormous, their faces those of frightened children.
“Get them out!” he hissed, “get them out!”
Jonathon turned to them then, his face aghast, as though he too had just realised they were still there. “Out!” he cried. “Out! Into the hall!”
Wynter felt Razi steel himself to stay. He kept her hand in his, but moved forward slightly, putting her behind him. He said nothing, but the King must have seen the defiance in his face because his lip curled and he clenched his jaw.
If he hits Razi again, thought Wynter, Razi will hit back. He will really let fly. And the King won’t know his own name for a week.
She didn’t think the King had any idea of the amount of raw strength Razi had hidden in his sinewy body.
“Get out!” Lorcan was waving his arms at them, “OUT!”
“Please, Razi.” Wynter tugged her friend’s hand, her eyes on her father’s terrible colour, his desperate clutching at the sheets.
Razi followed her eyes, “Lorcan…” he said hopelessly.
“GET OUT!” screamed the two men, and their children backed rapidly from the room. Jonathon pushed and bullied them out into the hall and slammed the door in their faces. After the briefest of moments they heard more shouting from Lorcan’s suite as the two men tore into each other again.
The guards watched them from carefully neutral faces, their spear heads gleaming in the slanting night. Razi was staring at the door, his posture combative, his breathing rapid. He was wound up, ready to burst.
Wynter looked at the guards. Their blood was already high from the incident on the hill and the shouting from Lorcan’s room had them on edge. She feared for the consequences to Razi should he start an argument with the King now. As it was, he could barely contain his rage, she could feel it trembling through his body like a river, raging deep underground. If he went head to head against the King there would be violence. And the way he was now, whatever he started he would damn well finish and that would be treason. He’d be hung, drawn and quartered without mercy or reprieve.
“Razi,” she said quietly and tugged his hand.
Razi grunted and pulled his arm away, reaching for the door.
Suddenly the shouting stopped. They froze, their attention focused solely on what might be happening inside the now silent room. Razi’s eyes widened, and Wynter suppressed a little whimper of fear as they listened in vain for some form of conversation. Razi lifted his hand to the door handle, but the door flew inwards before he could touch it, and Jonathon stood there, his face appalled.
“Help him,” he said.
Razi rushed past him and Wynter followed.
“I’ve killed him, haven’t I? He’s dead!” The fear and regret in Jonathon’s voice would have had Wynter gaping at him, had her father not taken up all her attention.
“Oh Razi! Razi! He’s dead!”
“Shhh!” Razi held up his hand and they forced themselves to be very still. He bent over Lorcan, his face grim. Then he turned quickly, rummaged in his bag and drew out his little wooden trumpet and a small mirror.
“Son…” began Jonathon, but Razi rounded on him and snarled at him to shut up. The King stepped back, pressed his lips together and watched with tear-filled eyes while Razi held the little mirror to Lorcan’s partially open lips.
Razi watched the mirror carefully, frowning. Then he put the trumpet to Lorcan’s chest and listened. Wynter gripped the footboard and held her breath, concentrating hard, as though by being still enough and quiet enough, she too might hear what Razi strained to detect.
Lorcan was as still as stone. His eyelashes, his eyebrows, the fine, sleek beginnings of a beard on his unshaven cheeks, gleamed in the sun that streamed through his window. They gave a bright and fiery illusion of life to his motionless face. But his powerful chest lay unmoving. His big hands, heavy as marble carvings, rested on the white sheets.
Dad. Oh, Dad. Wake up.
Razi cast aside the listening device and bent over her father again, pressing his ear directly to the man’s chest. His jaw twitched rhythmically as he ground his teeth. His expression was growing desperate.
Suddenly Razi reared up, lifted his fist over his head and brought it down in a fierce hammer blow to the centre of Lorcan’s chest. Jonathon leapt and yelled in shock, but Razi completely ignored him as he bent and pressed his ear to Lorcan’s chest again. Wynter sobbed as Razi’s face drew down in tight frustration and despair. But once again he swung back and slammed his fist down hard onto Wynter’s father’s chest, yelling with the impact as if raging at Lorcan.
He pressed his ear to the big chest again, his face taut. Wynter and Jonathon held their breaths. Razi grunted and shifted position suddenly, putting his eye to Lorcan’s lips. He stayed motionless for a moment, his face intense, and then Wynter saw his eyelids flutter, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Good fellow…” he whispered, and lay his forehead against her father’s. His hand lifted slightly as Lorcan’s chest rose in a shallow breath. Wynter lost sight of them then, because her eyes were blinded with tears. But she heard Razi murmur “good fellow” again. Then he began to shuffle his vials and potions about in a calm, methodical manner, and Wynter felt herself sink to the floor.
“Pick her up,” she heard Razi say from far away, “bring her to her room and lie her on the bed, raise her feet on a pillow.”
Distantly, as if in her sleep, Wynter felt the King lift her, carry her and gently lay her on her bed.
There were no dreams.
“Wynter.”
She felt the weight of someone sitting beside her on her bed and knew at once that it was Razi. He stroked her hair and she opened her eyes. The light was dim, he’d lit a candle. She looked down; someone had taken off her boots and her belt, and covered her with a blanket.
“What happened?”
“You collapsed from exhaustion.”
“I mean about my father, Razi. What happened to my father?”
“Lorcan is doing well, sis. His heart beats constant. He roused to consciousness a while ago, and Father and himself had a long, calm discussion. Then he agreed to take that draught. He should sleep until late tomorrow morning, and then we shall see how things are.”
“Will he die?”
“He might.” She closed her eyes. Razi stroked her hair. “But, in reality, Wynter, he’s more worn out than anything else at the moment. If he does as I tell him, he might live a good long while yet. It just depends on his staying calm and resting.”
“I’d better dye my dresses black then, because that’s not going to happen.”
It wasn’t intended as a joke, but she sounded so forlorn and miserable that the two of them chuckled.
“What earthly time is it?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow and looking around.
Razi just patted her shoulder. “I have to go, sis. Will you come sit with him? I’ve ordered food and hot water for you from the kitchens. They should be here soon.”
She eyed him. He was dressed in his scarlet long-coat and black britches, his suede gloves in his right hand. He’s going to the banquet, she thought with regret, it wasn’t cancelled after all. Poor Razi.
“You’re wearing the scarlet,” she said significantly, hoping that the King had relented. Razi looked down at his clothes.
“Alberon’s coats need to be adjusted for me,” he said bitterly. Then he stood abruptly, dragging his gloves on with savage little jerks. “Apparently they have the purple robe waiting for me in the royal rooms. I need to go now. Take care.”
“Razi!” She slid from the edge of the bed, appalled that he was actually striding from the room with such a curt farewell.
He looked around in surprise, then his face changed and he dashed back to her and pulled her into his arms. “Sorry,” he whispered in her hair. “So sorry, sis. I’m all rage and fire at the moment. I’m not thinking clearly. I’m not angry at you, you know that?”
She rubbed his back as he hugged her, trying to ease the iron-tight tension in his shoulders. “Have you had news of Christopher?” she mumbled.
He pulled away, avoiding her eyes, adjusting his gloves again. “No news.”
She hesitated, then laid her hand on his, stilling his agitated fretting. “Perhaps I could take to the passages tonight,” she offered. “I could see if…”
“NO! No, Wynter. Promise me!” He grabbed her hand, his face and his voice stricken with panic and fear. “Promise!”
She grinned at him, a watery, weakling grin. “Mother hen!” she chided. She punched his arm and he tried desperately to smile at her.
“Promise,” he said, shaking her gently.
“I promise.”
“Good girl. Now, please don’t leave your rooms.” He gazed tenderly at her for a moment. “And don’t worry about Lorcan. He’ll be fine.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”
And then he was gone, slamming the hall door behind him. The sounds made by a large body of guards retreated after him down the corridor, silence following on their heels like a curse.
What Price to Pay
Razi did not return that night, though Wynter waited until well past the first quarter. Lorcan continued to sleep peacefully and deeply, oblivious to her faithful vigil. Eventually discomfort and bone-weariness sent Wynter shuffling to her bed, where she dozed on and off in restless unease.
She was just sinking into a true, deep sleep, her mind falling away, when her father frightened her by appearing at her door. He clung to the doorframe and peered in at her, his mouth moving wordlessly and she gaped at him, as if seeing him through gritty clouds of smoke.
Eventually she rose to the surface of her fatigue, and Lorcan and the room snapped into sharp focus. It was early morning, just before sunrise and Lorcan was saying, “… darling? Wynter? Can you hear me?”
His hands were gripping the doorframe so tightly that it looked as though his tendons were about to pop through his skin.
“Wynter. I have a job for you today, if you’re up to it?”
She answered him dryly, without a trace of humour.
“Get back into bed, you idiot. And I might come in and listen to your request. Otherwise, fall down where you are, and I’ll step over you on my way to the privy.”
Lorcan scowled at her and began to grope his way back to his room. “You’re just like your mother!” he rasped as he disappeared around the corner.
She waited tensely as he laboured into his bedroom, then relaxed at the sound of him getting into bed.
“She must have been a blessed saint!” she called out, and pushed back the covers and prepared to wash and dress.
Beyond the window, shadows flickered across the fresh rose of the sky. Ravens again, but so many more this time. Jusef Marcos’s body must have been added to the bloody remnants on the trophy spikes. She groaned in disgust and averted her eyes. There had been a time when robin-song and blackbirds woke her from her sleep. Now it was ravens, circling and cawing, their sharp feet scrabbling on the roof above her head.
What had their lives come to? That death greeted them from sunrise to sundown, and they had no choice but to run alongside it, and hope not to be caught in its net?
There was nothing edible remaining of the previous night’s food, so she perched at the foot of Lorcan’s bed in her work uniform, chewing on a stale crust of manchet, a beaker of water in her hand. Her father had refused anything to drink, and was huddled under his blankets, shivering despite the heat. He eyed her as she doggedly gnawed the hard bread.
“Go to Marni,” he urged. “Get yourself something proper to eat.”
She stopped chewing, and her hand dropped to her lap.
Go to Marni. Get yourself something to eat. How many hundreds of times in her life had her father said that to her? She hadn’t heard it for years now, of course, but up until their exile it had been a regular, daily order. It had been the beginning of so many journeys to the kitchen. Journeys which she had first tottered on fat little legs. Then skipped, scabby-kneed and blithe. And finally raced with all the bubbling exuberance of youth. Journeys she had almost always travelled alone, but that had always been bookended by those two eternal stalwarts, her father and Marni. Comfort and strength at both ends of the trip, the knowledge of their presence always enough to carry her through the intimidating, sometimes dangerous, corridors of state.
How much longer do I have? she thought, looking at her father, with you as my fortress and my friend?
“Stop writing requiems in your head,” he murmured, his lips curving upwards. It was an old joke of his, whenever she drifted off. But it was a bit close to the bone today, and he knew it as soon as he said it.
“Are you hungry, Dad?” she asked, as evenly as she could.
“Yes! I’m bloody clemmed!”
She laughed in delight and patted his foot. “How does scrambled eggs, manchet bread, and coffee sound?”
He made a ravenous noise, and she hopped off the bed and headed for the door. But a thought struck her as she was leaving, and she paused at the threshold. Perhaps this wasn’t the right time, but last night’s terrible fight was gnawing at her, and she had to ask.
“Dad,” she said, “about that… about the…”
“Don’t!” he said fiercely, his eyes huge and frightened. “Wynter, you can never mention that machine again. Do you understand? Not even in private, not even just between the two of us. As long as last night remains unmentioned, you will be safe. But Wyn, you need to understand… if it ever came to light that you know more than this, or that you seek to know more than this, Jonathon will kill you. And he’ll kill Razi too.” Lorcan held her eyes with his own and his voice dropped almost to a whisper, as though the walls, the bed or the ravens on the roof might overhear and report their conversation.
“He has already destroyed Oliver, and he is wiping Alberon from history. He has ruined everything he
ever wanted for poor Razi. And he loved them, darling. He still loves them. But you are nothing to him. You understand? He would erase you, like that!” Her father clicked his fingers, his teeth bared. “And he would think nothing of your loss. So, please, do not give him cause. Do not let a mistake I made in my youth cost me the only life I hold dear.”
She blinked, but didn’t reply. He raised his head from the pillow.
“Wynter,” he hissed, “Please!”
“What if the King is wrong? What if…”
“I don’t care. He can’t hurt you, I won’t allow it.” His voice was flat and filled with steel. “I don’t care if he destroys the kingdom, Wyn. I don’t care if he destroys himself; as long as he leaves you alone.”
Wynter knew that wasn’t true – both those things would break Lorcan’s heart, but she knew what he meant. Unlike Jonathon, Lorcan was not willing to sacrifice that which he loved for the sake of a kingdom, no matter how unique, how bright and shining that kingdom might be. Lorcan would always put Wynter first. She was the price he would never be willing to pay.
“All right, Dad,” she said softly. “We’ll never speak of it again.” He relaxed his clenched fists and let his head drop back to the pillow. They smiled at each other: Then she scowled and jabbed a finger at him. “Stay in bed!” she ordered and headed out into the hall.
There were three Maids of the Bucket coming from Razi’s room and another three waiting to enter, their heavy buckets steaming gently into the early slanting sun. Wynter frowned. It was very early for Razi to be filling a bath. The boiler men couldn’t be too happy with him. He must have had them up at all hours, heating the water.
“Are we almost done?” whispered one of the waiting maids to the others as they exited Razi’s suite, their empty buckets clonking hollowly against the yoke.
“Aye, thank Jesu. You lot’ll be the last. Bloody ridiculous, a bath at this hour! Couldn’t he have used the bathhouse like the rest of the court?”
The Poison Throne Page 17